


Bei mir bist du schön

by FreedomColouredBlue



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Blindfolds, Burlesque, Connor is a model, Hank is a photographer, Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Pink ostrich feathers fans, Sensory Deprivation, Trans Connor (Detroit: Become Human), bound hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24822550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreedomColouredBlue/pseuds/FreedomColouredBlue
Summary: After a burlesque-themed photoshoot, Hank gets a private performance from his favorite lingerie model.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 2
Kudos: 72





	Bei mir bist du schön

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyAmalthea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAmalthea/gifts).



> I want to thank my dearest friend LadyAmalthea for commissioning this work. She's wonderful, brilliant and kind <3 All proceedings went to the BLM movement. The song is Bei mir bist du schön, by The Andrew Sisters. I hope you'll enjoy <3

**Bei mir bist du schön**

This is... new.

Hank doesn’t know much about the fine art of burlesque, other than what he’d researched prior to the photoshoot, but he’s pretty sure he remembers that burlesque, as a dance, is all about looking, not touching. It’s all about seducing with a wink, a sway, a glove slowly peeled off and a glimpse of rhinestones where is counts. It’s about looking available, not being it.  
Burlesque is about looking.

And yet here he is: sitting on a chair, his wrists tied up behind the backrest with a pale blue silk scarf and his eyes blindfolded with another one, but red.  
He can’t see.

He can’t look.

Which is... unnerving, to say the least. Especially for a photographer.

And yet, despite all that, Hank feels anticipation crawling right under his first layer of skin like electricity as he squirms on the wooden seat, trying to find something, anything, any trace of...

The scratch of a needle on vinyl jerks his restless mind away from its scrambling as Connor hums in the darkness, following the first notes of an old song.

Hank can only trace the outlines of his body with his inner eye, since his outer eyes are currently... well, useless.

_Pale skin that becomes a lovely pale pink around the metal setting of the zircons framing his hips, the globes of his ass, his crotch._

_Powdered pink ostrich feathers blooming from the fans in his delicate hands, the soft edges caressing his rosy nipples like tendrils of dawn._

_Barefoot.  
Hank’s not a foot fetishist but, damn, Connor barefoot is a vision. Like a Botticelli wrapped in a Degas._

_He walks on every breath of air Hank inhales like a sultry angel. Like the first ever daguerrotype. Like-_

«Of all the boys I've known, and I've known some...»

  
  


Oh god.

He’s singing.

Connor’s singing over the lady on the vinyl.

Oh god.

Oh Jesus.

Hank’s cock twitches in his lap, freed from the constraints of his jeans by Connor’s soft, pale hands. He’s left him there (the bastard) out and jutting and pulsating with blood, and he didn’t even have the decency to give it a kiss. A lick.

Again, the bastard.

Connor wraps a small smile around the words as he sings, Hank can _hear_ it, squeezing the vowels tenderly.

god, those lips.

  
  


«Until I first met you, I was lonesome...»

  
  


Hank’s camera _loves_ Connor’s lips. Even without that shadow of rouge they would’ve been so plump and perfect and addicting, but with that splash of colour...

god, Hank’s not proud of it, but he was actually _salivating all_ throughout the photoshoot. Imagining those lips puckered around Hank’s fingers, wrapped around Hank’s cock, stretched to capacity by his girth...

  
  


«And when you came in sight, dear, my heart grew light  
And this old world seemed new to me..»

  
  


Oh god, why does that ‘in sight’ sounds so much like ‘inside’ to Hank’s ears? _Never been there, baby, but give me time..._

Light footsteps dance on the carpet at the edge of Hank’s perception, and the photographer can almost see it.

The dance.

The slow, languorous sway of pale, supple limbs... Connor’s chest glimmering with a sheen of glitter... Ostrich feathers a halo, the ghostly embrace of a sensual, silky lover all over Connor’s skin... The tingle of self assurance, the champagne dizziness of sensual empowerment...  
God.

God, if only Hank could just _look._

A puff or air. Lips. Hank can feel them. A hair away from the shell of his ear. He shivers. God.  
  
«You're really swell, I have to admit you  
Deserve expressions that really fit you...»

When the feathers casually brush against his bound, bare, forearms, Hank feels them almost at a molecular level, he’s so tense. He mentally thanks whatever deity inspired him to roll up his sleeves before the photoshoot and takes a sharp intake of breath, skin covered in a feeling of scalding ice wherever Connor’s fans touch it...

«And so I've wracked my brain, hoping to explain...»  
  
  


The space over Hank’s tights suddenly fills itself as Connor straddles him, his naked inner thighs hot and taut with the effort of keeping himself standing on his pretty, stoned high heels. The memory of how those sparkling straps oh so perfectly frame Connor’s malleolus is almost enough to make Hank come here and there.  
  
Connor makes himself comfortable on Hank’s lap, wriggling that tight little ass over Hank’s growing, pulsating erection, slotting the curve of his cock almost perfectly between his cheeks, and only then Hank realizes Connor’s naked, now. The thong’s gone.

  
«...All the things that you do to me...»  
  
  


  
  


Wrapping his arms around Hank’s neck, Connor leans in to whisper the words into his ear, fans still in his hands, stoned heels clacking against the floor. Connor’s chest presses against Hank, and where the photographer’s shirt’s been opened button by button, Hank can feel his coarse, grey chest hair brushing against Connor’s smooth, perfumed pecs.  
  
Oh god.

  
  


Oh god, if he could just...

  
  


Connor squeezes Hank’s legs with his hot, soft, supple inner thighs. He chuckles. The sound’s like drops of water in a pond. His lip gloss smells like strawberries. His skin irradiates to much heat Hank might die.

  
  


But oh, what a way to go...

  
  


Hank’s cock twitches as he moans, a little too desperate for his tastes. Connor adjusts himself to he can embrace Hank’s veiny length with his plump, slick folds.

  
  


Oh god.

  
  


Oh god, _yes._

  
  


«Bei mir bist du schoen,» Connor continues, the song waiting for no one, «please let me explain...»

  
  


Slender, wet fingers wrap around Hank’s cock to pump his length slowly, sadistically so.  
  
«C-Connor...» Hank tries, only to be shushed by a finger pressing against his lips.  
_  
«_ Bei mir bist du schoen,» Connor coos, index and thumb squeezing right under Hank’s glans, «means you're grand...»

«Con... A-Angel...» Hank pleads, voice hoarse as another finger joins the first against his quivering mouth.  
  
_«_ Bei mir bist du schoen,» Connor chuckles, lifting himself up to align his drenched sex over the angry, glistening tip of Hank’s cock, «...again I'll explain...»  
  
  


«Oh, god, Connor!»  
_  
«..._ It means you're the fairest in the land _.»_

  
  


_Hank breaches Connor like he was born for it. His moist, pulsating flesh wraps around his tip, and suddenly everything is touch. Searing warmth. Quivering flesh trembling and tensing and releasing and oh god, he’s so_ tight _inside..._

  
  


«Connor!» Hank rasps out, voice hoarse already, cheeks on fire, heart jumping up and down his throat, battling for space with his Adam’s apple and all the word he will never say. Not anywhere else but on Connor’s soft, strawberry-flavored lips.

  
  


«I... could say bella, bella...» Connor pants, rhythm faltering behind his parted, trembling lips, «... even... say wunderbar...»  
  
«Oh god, baby, please, please...»

  
  


«Each language... only helps...»

  
  


«Baby, let me touch you...»  
  
Connor lifts his hips back, plunges once again on Hank’s dick with such force Hank’s very bone marrow quakes in a strangled moan.

  
  


«...me tell you how grand you are...» Connor’s biting his lip. Biting back a smirk. A smug one. He must be. Connected as they are, Hank can almost _see him with his skin._

  
  


«Connor!» Hank roars, fighting against his bindings, desperate to hold, to squeeze, to regain some semblance of control over his pleasure...

  
  


Connor starts riding in earnest, faster, faster, clenching and moaning under his breath every other two bars.

  
  


«I've tried to explain...» blunt nails dig into Hank’s nape as Connor brings him inexorably towards the edge, every movement of the model’s hips punctuated by Hank’s «Fuck, fuck, _fuck._ » He’s so close, so wound up already, he’s been half mast since he’s seen Connor for the first time that morning, all suave and sexy and sultry, and he can’t, he can’t, he just...

  
  


«...bei mir bist du schoen...» Connor murmurs into Hank’s ear as he pinches the photographer’s left nipple over his shirt and _twists_...

«FUCK!» Hank roars, neck tense, every muscle, every nerve, every microscopic synapsis in his body exploding like fireworks. Like nukes. Wiping away everything and anything except Connor, Connor, _Connor..._

  
«...So kiss me...»

Connor’s lips join Hank’s, so hot and greedy, breaching through every last defence, every last shred of propriety and thought.

  
  


Hank comes with a long, dragged-out moan, spilling his need into Connor’s mouth as he spurts his cum inside his sex. He shakes and quakes and breaks down, his entire mind wrapped around Connor, bound to him as Hank’s hands are bound by Connor’s scarves.  
  
Connor chuckles, mute in his delight as he steal the breath out of Hank’s very lungs.

He knows.

He knows Hank’s his.

Completely, irremediably his.

He knows the secret of burlesque.

Power.

As Hank comes (god, will he ever stop coming?) Connor traces the taut line of his cheek with one finger, an artist admiring his handiwork. He smiles.

«...and say you understand...»

  
  


  
  



End file.
